Breaking Point
by The Raisin Girl
Summary: Dean Winchester does not cry. Spoilers up through season eight, major character death.
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING:** This fic contains a major (and incontrovertible) character death.

* * *

Dean Winchester does not cry.

He doesn't remember the last time he really cried, more than the errant tear that escapes when life is too heavy and killing things isn't enough to make it stop hurting. But this…this is the point where he breaks at last, and though there is rage aplenty, there isn't nearly enough to smother the crystal-clear, razor-sharp knowledge of things—important things, essential things—lost and gone forever.

Dean always thought if he ever allowed himself to feel this much pain again, it would be over Sam, maybe Bobby. He was surprised and ashamed when it didn't come with his father's death. But whether he would allow it or not isn't even the issue; he has no power to stop what he's feeling in this moment. It's horrible and it's final, and knowing that is the worst part of all.

He's lost things before, people. He's lost his mother, his father, his brother three times over. He's lost Bobby and Lisa and Ben, and another child…a daughter he never had a chance to be a father to. He's lost Benny, and Castiel, Castiel, Castiel more than anyone. He's lost the angel more times than he can bear to think about.

But Cas always came back, and somehow that made it manageable. Whether he acknowledged it or not, Dean's always had that thought in the back of his mind, since the first time Castiel returned from beyond the grave. He was the most impossible-where do angels even _go _when they die-and yet he always showed up again. Dean _counted _on it. Even when he watched Cas disappear into the reservoir, even as he clenched his fingers in the wet fabric of that dirty trench coat as he folded it away for safekeeping…he knew somehow. Everyone he's ever loved will leave him eventually, but Cas always, always comes back.

Not now, though. There's a howling in his ears that just won't quit because he's staring, finally, at the incontrovertible proof that he is alone in the universe. There won't be a sudden reappearance, no phone call from a hospital miles away, no walking out of the river unscathed, no being pulled from Purgatory and dumped, dirty and confused, on Dean's doorstep.

Dean grasps one of those hands, the hands that gripped him tight and raised him from Perdition, the hands that have healed him, pulled him back from the brink of death and despair more times than he cares to count. It's cold and stiff under his fingers, as though the body it belongs to has been dead for a long time. It's only been minutes, and Dean doesn't understand.

"Cas," he gasps out. "Cas, please…tell me you're there, man. If you can hear me, just please…you have to come back."

He knows there won't be an answer, but it doesn't stop him from babbling on, begging the angel who always comes when he calls to show up just one more time.

His eyes blur with tears—not one, but many, more than he thought he had left—and he counts it a blessing. If he can't see he doesn't have to understand, doesn't have to take it in.

* * *

Sam stands a few feet away, speechless with horror and grief, both his own and an extra measure on his brother's behalf. He doesn't want to see this, either, doesn't want to acknowledge the evidence of Castiel's passing or the pain in his brother's choking sobs that tell anyone listening everything they needed to know about what Dean feels—has felt all along—for a nerdy angel in a trench coat.

That coat always made Castiel look so much more imposing than his slight stature should have allowed. It's a part of him, and always seemed just as obstinate and impenetrable as the angel inside it.

It looks oddly thin and flat, now, twisted haphazardly underneath the body, smudged with dirt and blood and God knows what else. The body itself looks so much smaller now, too, without the fire-and-gravel presence of Castiel to animate it. It looks like Jimmy Novak again, slight and thin and a bit pale, a conventional man in a conventional suit, sprawled in the dust to which he will now return.

The only evidence that Castiel was ever there is in that dust, spread out along the ground on either side of him, dwarfing him even more with their size alone, to say nothing of what they mean to the people watching: the scorched black outline of a once-magnificent pair of wings.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I have no idea why I had to do this to myself. It's the absolute worst case scenario I can imagine for the show right now, and I hope they don't ever go there. I guess just that quote from Misha and the growing fear that there won't be a happy ending for the boys has me thinking morbid thoughts, thinking about what it would take to break Dean out of his tendency to bottle all his emotions up, what it would take to make him give up on Castiel. And I think they're the same thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Okay, so when I said "incontrovertible character death," I guess I lied. Whoops. If you haven't read "Resurrection" and you want to know how any of the stuff in this fic happened, the second chapter of that fic should explain. The order, chronologically, goes: Chapter 1 of Resurrection, Chapter 1 of Breaking Point, Chapter 2 of Resurrection, Chapter 2 of Breaking Point. And now a warning: here there be obnoxious amounts of fluff. And to the Guest reviewer who said I made them cry, thanks for reading and I hope this at least slightly makes up for it?

* * *

Dean wakes to the sound of the motel room door creaking open and then clicking shut. It isn't Sam; he knows the sound of Sam's footsteps and these are too light, and trying far too hard to be quiet. He slides his hand slowly under his pillow, gripping the wooden handle of the knife he still keeps there.

The footsteps stop at the edge of his bed, and he can feel the intruder leaning over him silently, eyes boring into the back of his head. It feels…_familiar_, and he suppresses a tremor that starts tingling in his scalp and wants to work its way down his spine. He tries to keep his breathing even while bracing himself to flip over and engage the creepy bastard watching him sleep.

Creepy Bastard lets out a sigh, and Dean feels his entire body seize up. He stops breathing. He _knows _that sigh.

"Cas…" he gasps around the fist that seems to be squeezing his windpipe shut with the knowledge that it can't be, absolutely _cannot possibly_ be…

"Dean," says a voice above him, and Dean feels himself turning over, feels his hand let go of the knife handle and feels his heart stutter back to its normal rhythm as his eyes tries to take in what he's seeing. It doesn't seem real, can't be real…and yet everything in him aches for it to be the truth.

Castiel is standing by his bed, looking down at him with warmth and relief and something else. He's different somehow, smaller. The familiar trench coat is of course gone; Dean burned it when they gave Jimmy Novak's body a well-deserved hunter's funeral. Cas looks so _normal_, in a pair of jeans and a faded black t-shirt. His hair falls messily over his forehead and his eyes, once cobalt-blue and sharp, now look faded and a little tired…tired, but _happy_. He needs a shave.

Dean realizes with a start that Cas looked very _human_.

"Cas," he says again, sitting up more fully and reaching out tentatively to lay a hand on the other man's arm. His fingers touch warm skin and he almost chokes because it really is Cas. He doesn't really think, then, just wraps both arms around Castiel and pulls him in, pressing his face to the soft fabric of Castiel's shirt and breathing in deep. Before, Cas always smelled a bit like cold metal. Now he smells like fabric softener, and Dean has a crazy moment where he tries not to go into hysterics over the fact that God or _someone_ apparently decided to send Cas back to him not only as a human being, but in freshly laundered clothes no less. A whisper of a laugh escapes him despite his best efforts, and he feels Castiel's arms wrapping around him, long-fingered hands brushing through his hair and clutching at his shoulders.

"You came back," Dean mumbles, voice muffled by Castiel's stomach. He feels rather than hears Cas _hmm_ in response.

"Of course," he says. "I always come when you call."

Dean practically melts against him, letting out a shaky breath and holding him just a little bit tighter. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, afraid if he really looks he'll prove to himself somehow that this is a dream. Cas cards his hands through Dean's hair and returns his embrace, both just basking quietly in being together, and alive.

It's Cas who finally breaks the silence.

"Dean…we should…shouldn't you test me?"

"Hmm?" Dean pulls back just enough to look up at Cas's face. "Test you for what?"

"Silver, holy water, iron...you should test me."

"Why would I test you? You're Cas." Cas gives him an unimpressed look.

"Yes, but I'm human. I could be an imposter. I could be possessed."

"And if you were either of those things you would totally be standing here trying to get me to test you for them, right?"

"If I wanted to convince you further of my veracity, then yes."

Dean rolls his eyes, and then reasserts his hold on Castiel and _pulls_, dragging backward until they're tumbling on the bed together, arms and legs tangling as Dean pulls Cas underneath the blankets, clothes and all, and redistributes them over their bodies amidst Castiel's half-hearted protests.

"Dean, we really should—"

"Shh," Dean interrupts, tucking Cas back into his arms and nuzzling his face into Cas's hair. "I know. You're right. I'm gonna put you through the ringer with tests, the whole nine yards, I promise. Salt, holy water, Borax, silver, iron…all of 'em. And we're gonna get you a tattoo to match mine and Sammy's, and maybe some sigils to hide us from the angels while we're at it."

"Okay," Cas says, sounding dubious. "But—"

"We're gonna do all of that…later. Tomorrow. Right now, I just want…" he stops, voice cracking a little. Cas was dead, really _dead_, and now he's here. Of course Dean has questions, and worries, but right now he just wants Cas there with him. As he always has, Castiel understands without having to be told with words.

"Okay," he says again, relaxing into Dean's arms and running a soothing hand down his spine. "Tomorrow, then."


End file.
